During meditation session today, there was a sharing as to whether the mind truly seems 'simple' after meditation. I reflected that I was somewhat able to observe the mind as a simple process of witnessing what is coming up and down in awareness. However, I could also see that life itself is complex. It is interesting for me that in the midst of the most complexity, the mind still manages to be a witness to it. It is not that life is less chaotic or less involved, but in meditation, I am able to get a glimpse of a mind that isn't really ruffled by all of it. The mind can respond within the conditions around it without somehow being like a proverbial pinball, bouncing off this idea then, ricocheting off the other.
I started to reflect on this topic tonight: besides sitting meditation, are there other ways that life ''teaches" us the simplicity in the midst of complexity? That is, besides a technique of using method to calm body and mind, are there other, analogous ways to get to this insight? The closest I had to that analogous experience might be times when I have had such a strong fear or insecurity that I would lose something important to me. I often found situations where I was so often exposed to that insecurity that I eventually had to dive right through it to get to the 'bottom' of it. When I finally did get to the bottom (if there is such a thing), I found that the experience is really my own creation: empty thought, coming and going.
Two examples I can think of that are strongest in me are the fear of losing a social role or position, and fear of losing my health. When I am confronted with the fear of losing a social role such as a job or title, I will try to examine the source of the fear, and whether there is something I can do to address it or improve my performance to maintain what I have. But if the fear is too strong or happens too many times, I get to a point where I tell myself : "this state of perpetual fear is worse than the actual fear coming true". Then I start to loosen a bit and realize that the tension I am creating is from a desire for something that was never fixed to begin with. As I realize this a little bit more, I literally rest in the state of insecurity. Rather than trying to 'address' insecurity by getting rid of it, I start to play with the idea of loosening into the insecure feelings; being within it, rather than tensing up every time it happens. This way of approaching the emotion starts to reveal it to be a creation generated by mind: I am not in a reactive mode all the time with this thought, and I can create a soft space around the insecurity thoughts. At this point, I am no longer treating the fear as an enemy, but start to get closer to it until it is seen as part of mind, not a virus or an attacker.
The second example is fear of losing my health, which often arises during meditation. If there is a certain painful feeling that feels raw and unchangeable, a thought often arises that I will never emerge from this pain, especially if it is chronic. Part of the problem is that the body's condition is ambiguous: I don't always know where the pain arises or even why, because it is bounded by so many different conditions which are changing. When I finally let go of the notion that pain defines my true self, and that I must end pain in order to live, I suddenly see that the pain was never an obstacle to begin with. It is just a state that is there, and suffering just arose from how I use thoughts to zero in on the pain or try to get rid of it. Neither seeking nor rejecting the pain, I recognize the mind's ability to behold pain, to own it and have it, without attaching or pointing to it.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Fear of Infinity
I came across an interesting quote by Kirk Schneider, in his book, Rediscovery of Awe: Splendor, Mystery, and The Fluid Centre of Life. The quote reads, "The death of a beloved one--especially if it is faced--strips away the illusion of containment; it unveils life's infinity. This infinity is the great secret that classic writers of the macabre betray--if only we could perceive it." (p.33) I found this quote surprising, because I tend to think of the biggest fear in life as 'finity' and not infinity at all. When I think of fears that I have, they usually relate to losing things that are precious or important to me: loved ones, friends, job, status, health, and so on. Fear of losing what I love and having what I don't like is one suffering that is described in the Buddhist Four Noble Truths. But I can also relate to what Kirk Schneider is describing as well. I think he is describing an insecurity of knowing that what I hold dear could be taken away, and there is no rule to prevent that from happening. Schneider describes the horror protagonist as someone who is "hammered by being". There is never a guarantee that something is going to last forever, and nothing I can do can make that different. Behind the 'horror' story he describes, there is a kind of sense that the universe might even be indifferent to what one might consider to be human.
Schneider describes the horror of infinity, though I haven't yet got to the part in the book where he might speak of delighting in its possibility. But I think that most of the great tragedies are attempts to reconcile with the infinite. Shakespeare's King Lear is an example of a story of someone who gets hammered by being. Lear expects his daughter Cordelia to be flattering toward him and demonstrate love in a way that models his expectations of a loving daughter. When she does not reciprocate, Lear is thrown into his own inner chaos: the sense that anything is possible, and the universe is not operating according to Lear's rules or imperatives. The rest of the play is essentially Lear's process of losing the stability of his power to two scheming daughters, 'going mad', and eventually reconciling with Cordelia, perhaps when it is all too late for both Lear and Cordelia. Lear recognizes that he is not identical to his power, or to the identity he thought he was in relation to his family. But in order to go through this process, it seems that Lear needs to taste the experience of not being as in control as he believes. It is similar to many of H.P. Lovecraft's stories, where the protagonists discover dimensions in which what they thought is human no longer applies. An indifferent or even hostile universe seems to emerge from this picture.
Why does it seem that the highest people need to fall into 'infinity' in order to be reconciled to it? I suppose it's an easy question to answer, if I remember that Buddha also chose an uncertain journey in favor of the power and comfort of his princely life. But Buddha's story is also a different one, because it is an attempt to find principles of mind, rather than basking or simply reeling in chaos. It is not that Buddha saw this infinite possibility in the ill or the dying or homeless person, and said, "there are no rules, nothing to live for". Rather, seeing all these possibilities which lie outside his sphere of privilege and power was a sort of invitation for the Buddha to explore and seek that which is not moved by attachments to existence, or pleasures, or status. On the other hand, the sight of people dying, homeless and sick must have challenged the worldview that felt most comfortable to the Buddha. And it's only by seeing the monk that the Buddha is lead to imagine some other life that is not drawn into attachments. Without that hope in whatever form it takes, I wonder how people could face chaos again without going into a defensive shell.
Schneider, Kirk J, (2004) Rediscovery of Awe: Splendor, Mystery, and The Fluid Centre of Life. St Paul: Paragon House.
Schneider describes the horror of infinity, though I haven't yet got to the part in the book where he might speak of delighting in its possibility. But I think that most of the great tragedies are attempts to reconcile with the infinite. Shakespeare's King Lear is an example of a story of someone who gets hammered by being. Lear expects his daughter Cordelia to be flattering toward him and demonstrate love in a way that models his expectations of a loving daughter. When she does not reciprocate, Lear is thrown into his own inner chaos: the sense that anything is possible, and the universe is not operating according to Lear's rules or imperatives. The rest of the play is essentially Lear's process of losing the stability of his power to two scheming daughters, 'going mad', and eventually reconciling with Cordelia, perhaps when it is all too late for both Lear and Cordelia. Lear recognizes that he is not identical to his power, or to the identity he thought he was in relation to his family. But in order to go through this process, it seems that Lear needs to taste the experience of not being as in control as he believes. It is similar to many of H.P. Lovecraft's stories, where the protagonists discover dimensions in which what they thought is human no longer applies. An indifferent or even hostile universe seems to emerge from this picture.
Why does it seem that the highest people need to fall into 'infinity' in order to be reconciled to it? I suppose it's an easy question to answer, if I remember that Buddha also chose an uncertain journey in favor of the power and comfort of his princely life. But Buddha's story is also a different one, because it is an attempt to find principles of mind, rather than basking or simply reeling in chaos. It is not that Buddha saw this infinite possibility in the ill or the dying or homeless person, and said, "there are no rules, nothing to live for". Rather, seeing all these possibilities which lie outside his sphere of privilege and power was a sort of invitation for the Buddha to explore and seek that which is not moved by attachments to existence, or pleasures, or status. On the other hand, the sight of people dying, homeless and sick must have challenged the worldview that felt most comfortable to the Buddha. And it's only by seeing the monk that the Buddha is lead to imagine some other life that is not drawn into attachments. Without that hope in whatever form it takes, I wonder how people could face chaos again without going into a defensive shell.
Schneider, Kirk J, (2004) Rediscovery of Awe: Splendor, Mystery, and The Fluid Centre of Life. St Paul: Paragon House.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
A Common Daily Grind of Wheels
Usually, after a day at work, I will tend to fall asleep on the subway. It is a terrible habit, but sometimes long days and then classes after work will do that. It is sometimes a wonderful experience to settle into the scene of the subway and finally let the items of the day disperse. Sometimes I might have a great many things in mind, but the restful moment seems to resolve these thoughts. It says to me: maybe you had that thought, but it was only the stirrings of restless mind. Rest dissolves the need to embellish those thoughts. And an ideal rest is the one that is alert to all the elements.
Today, I saw a couple sitting on the subway seats. The lady was just resting her head on the man's shoulder, and her eyes were gently closed. The man appeared to be gazing out the window, while trying to balance the lady's leaning head with his collapsing shoulder. He didn't look like he was succeeding, but he still looked peaceful. And I jokingly referred to this scene as ''tired romance". It isn't meant to disparage the scene, only to show that sometimes being tired can be romantic. It suggests a natural commonality between people, and their willingness to be silent with each other.
I have to admit, it's not easy for me to find the silence in things. The mind needs to be either sufficiently calm or subdued to be able to find examples of this kind of beautiful silence of just being.
When I am very silent, I see that things are just okay and things fit together the way they are. I don't need to force anything together like a jigsaw puzzle. In a sense, there are so many examples even in the nature world of things coming together. Lewis Thomas writes in his book Medusa and the Snail: "no Darwin has yet emerged to take account of the orderly, coordinated growth and differentiation of the whole astounding system, much less its seemingly permanent survival. It makes an interesting problem: how do mechanisms that seem to be governed entirely by chance and randomness bring into existence new species which fit so neatly and precisely, and usefully, as though they were the cells of an organism?" (p.13)
Why this impacts me is that it reminds me not to push too hard to connect. Sometimes, it is just a matter of putting myself into the world and making myself more available to what happens around me. Other times, I just naturally see that things fall into each other in patterns and then fall out of them, as a natural rhythm or process. Even destruction of elements is part of a natural order, not a reason to blame or feel one is being punished or left behind. It is part of an ongoing cycle that is renewing itself all the time.
It is often quite hard to think or experience life in this way, because so much of social learning is about trying to master new skills and reach goals. But I think the 'hard' part is only the very complicated impressions I have as to what I need to do, to be or feel in order to survive in the world. There just isn't space to observe that the goal is only one possibility among many others. But even if I were to have no real status in the world, I would still be connected to other beings in some way. It is a journey to figure out those ways of connection that often remain hidden in the corner, like flies on the wall.
Thomas, Lewis, (1974) Medusa and the Snail: More Notes of a Biology Watcher. Toronto: Bantam Books
Today, I saw a couple sitting on the subway seats. The lady was just resting her head on the man's shoulder, and her eyes were gently closed. The man appeared to be gazing out the window, while trying to balance the lady's leaning head with his collapsing shoulder. He didn't look like he was succeeding, but he still looked peaceful. And I jokingly referred to this scene as ''tired romance". It isn't meant to disparage the scene, only to show that sometimes being tired can be romantic. It suggests a natural commonality between people, and their willingness to be silent with each other.
I have to admit, it's not easy for me to find the silence in things. The mind needs to be either sufficiently calm or subdued to be able to find examples of this kind of beautiful silence of just being.
When I am very silent, I see that things are just okay and things fit together the way they are. I don't need to force anything together like a jigsaw puzzle. In a sense, there are so many examples even in the nature world of things coming together. Lewis Thomas writes in his book Medusa and the Snail: "no Darwin has yet emerged to take account of the orderly, coordinated growth and differentiation of the whole astounding system, much less its seemingly permanent survival. It makes an interesting problem: how do mechanisms that seem to be governed entirely by chance and randomness bring into existence new species which fit so neatly and precisely, and usefully, as though they were the cells of an organism?" (p.13)
Why this impacts me is that it reminds me not to push too hard to connect. Sometimes, it is just a matter of putting myself into the world and making myself more available to what happens around me. Other times, I just naturally see that things fall into each other in patterns and then fall out of them, as a natural rhythm or process. Even destruction of elements is part of a natural order, not a reason to blame or feel one is being punished or left behind. It is part of an ongoing cycle that is renewing itself all the time.
It is often quite hard to think or experience life in this way, because so much of social learning is about trying to master new skills and reach goals. But I think the 'hard' part is only the very complicated impressions I have as to what I need to do, to be or feel in order to survive in the world. There just isn't space to observe that the goal is only one possibility among many others. But even if I were to have no real status in the world, I would still be connected to other beings in some way. It is a journey to figure out those ways of connection that often remain hidden in the corner, like flies on the wall.
Thomas, Lewis, (1974) Medusa and the Snail: More Notes of a Biology Watcher. Toronto: Bantam Books
Monday, October 19, 2015
Signs of...
Sometimes, when a person has to make a big decision in life, the expectation is that something out there will tell that person what is the best path to take. For example, just recently, I was at a little store in Chinatown when I saw a kind of magnetic compass that lands on different 'answers' depending on the question you frame to it. The answers possible are "yes", "no", "no way", "double no way", etc. When I was a teenager, I even experimented with this notion by purchasing an eight-ball that flashed little answers on its base. Sometimes, I would not be happy with the answer I received, so I would keep testing the ball until it became peeved with me and gave me random answers. I then moved on to the I Ching as another way of figuring out what works best for me in the future.
Having a clear answer is always a comforting thing, but I have found over time that the situations and choices one has are often complex. The I Ching is actually a very deep text that shows the complex rhythms of decisions, while respecting that the forces at play are always rising and perishing over time. Nothing is ever the 'absolute ruler' in the I Ching, and forces co-exist with one another rather than giving way to one dominating force. There isn't always a clear answer in this form of looking at the future. I wonder if perhaps my wish to consult it at times reflects a longing for the a simple time when I could sometimes just be happy with a decision and not have doubts about it.
I am thinking of future education and courses, and one thing that struck me in retrospect is that decisions aren't as catastrophic (or glamorous) as I make them out to be. For example, I have rarely had what is called an 'epiphany moment' where I clearly and unequivocally 'knew' that some decision or plan or action would be The One that would guarantee me eternal salvation (or at least the ability to pay rent). More often, decisions just sort of happen, and I find myself going with the conditions that are most conducive to what I have learned so far. If I try to totally transform myself while disregarding my shortcomings or my current challenges, I would end up making some decision that I might later regret.
If anything, I think that decisions could be seen as cause and conditions that are subject to change at any time. I make decisions based on what seems best for me and those around me, but none of this is to say that I will not make other decisions to adjust or refine the previous one. Decisions only bring about more potential learning situations. In this respect, I find it hard to imagine these days that there will be some 'sign' telling me that one decision is the right one, while the other is not. It seems much more complicated, and I would rather entertain as many possibilities as I can before I make the decision. Even when I am certain that I will not be comfortable to take certain lines of action, seeing as many choices as possible is a way to help me be open to possibilities I could not have imagined in the past.
Having a clear answer is always a comforting thing, but I have found over time that the situations and choices one has are often complex. The I Ching is actually a very deep text that shows the complex rhythms of decisions, while respecting that the forces at play are always rising and perishing over time. Nothing is ever the 'absolute ruler' in the I Ching, and forces co-exist with one another rather than giving way to one dominating force. There isn't always a clear answer in this form of looking at the future. I wonder if perhaps my wish to consult it at times reflects a longing for the a simple time when I could sometimes just be happy with a decision and not have doubts about it.
I am thinking of future education and courses, and one thing that struck me in retrospect is that decisions aren't as catastrophic (or glamorous) as I make them out to be. For example, I have rarely had what is called an 'epiphany moment' where I clearly and unequivocally 'knew' that some decision or plan or action would be The One that would guarantee me eternal salvation (or at least the ability to pay rent). More often, decisions just sort of happen, and I find myself going with the conditions that are most conducive to what I have learned so far. If I try to totally transform myself while disregarding my shortcomings or my current challenges, I would end up making some decision that I might later regret.
If anything, I think that decisions could be seen as cause and conditions that are subject to change at any time. I make decisions based on what seems best for me and those around me, but none of this is to say that I will not make other decisions to adjust or refine the previous one. Decisions only bring about more potential learning situations. In this respect, I find it hard to imagine these days that there will be some 'sign' telling me that one decision is the right one, while the other is not. It seems much more complicated, and I would rather entertain as many possibilities as I can before I make the decision. Even when I am certain that I will not be comfortable to take certain lines of action, seeing as many choices as possible is a way to help me be open to possibilities I could not have imagined in the past.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Managing Expectations
It isn't usual weather for October, and I expect the snow to come down soon. I still feel the crispness of leaves against the ground, and feel a strange nostalgia to hear them and feel them as well. It almost makes me want to bottle the crispness and color of the leaves, as Ray Bradbury suggests we could potentially do in his short story "Dandelion Wine". I try a new Chinese restaurant in the mid town area with my close friend Judy. I enjoy the food, but quickly realize that somehow the method of cooking must be of a slower kind.
I had this thought after the study group and dinner today. My thought is about how we manage expectations of others around us. In the Buddhist class, we talked about 'instant repentance' as being not taking others to be separate from the mind. There are different ways to look at this, but one such way is to see that the perceptions I have of other people are really my perceptions. There is no way for me to quite get to someone else except through the mediation of perceptions. From what I have read in Chan, there aren't these separate discrete beings called self and other, because there is this constant, flowing interconnection of conditions and information happening all the time. For me to say that this is 'mine' and that is 'yours' is at times to overlook the way there is a constant interconnection between me and you. The terms of 'me' and 'you' are continually shifting all the time.
I will give an example of what I mean. I was once part of a hiking group where I had often tried to plan ahead of time what to say, how the conversation should go, and so on. In most cases, if not all, everything I expected or wanted to happen never went as I had planned. I ended up feeling deflated, because I wasn't able to simply take moment as it was. In my eagerness to make friends or learn about others, I overlooked the fact that what I 'planned' is just my own thinking, based on an idea of what 'doing my best' is supposed to mean. It has nothing to do with how things unfold in the context of being within that situation, with all its complex conditions. Later, I started to realize that hardly anything that happens in the present moment is governed by how I think or plan it. At best, what I plan is only a kind of resource that will help me steer a path or draw from old experiences that might have worked in some cases, in the past. But plans don't provide experiences that can be replicated. The same is true with expectations.
I have often had some worries about not wanting to let other people down. When I was coordinating a workshop recently, I would occasionally judge how I was doing based on the feedback I had received from others. I learned how easily I go out to others to judge my work, and how afraid I was of letting others down or being seen in a negative light. But, as I reflected tonight, the only expectations I can or need to manage are the ones arising in the mind itself. It is not about imaginary expectations that might be happening to someone else 'out there', but more: what expectations do I face now about this situation I am in? Am I expecting perfection? Am I expecting others to overlook things I did, or recognize me more? Do I expect to be able to make others happy? It is only in examining these expectations that I see their basis in a kind of desire for me to be "okay", when only mind can say that mind is okay. Often, when I am afraid of others' reactions, I am really projecting my own reactions onto the situations around me. It is a reflection of the state of mind I am having. More tragic, I end up giving away mind's power to phenomena that have no power to reverse my fears.
I had this thought after the study group and dinner today. My thought is about how we manage expectations of others around us. In the Buddhist class, we talked about 'instant repentance' as being not taking others to be separate from the mind. There are different ways to look at this, but one such way is to see that the perceptions I have of other people are really my perceptions. There is no way for me to quite get to someone else except through the mediation of perceptions. From what I have read in Chan, there aren't these separate discrete beings called self and other, because there is this constant, flowing interconnection of conditions and information happening all the time. For me to say that this is 'mine' and that is 'yours' is at times to overlook the way there is a constant interconnection between me and you. The terms of 'me' and 'you' are continually shifting all the time.
I will give an example of what I mean. I was once part of a hiking group where I had often tried to plan ahead of time what to say, how the conversation should go, and so on. In most cases, if not all, everything I expected or wanted to happen never went as I had planned. I ended up feeling deflated, because I wasn't able to simply take moment as it was. In my eagerness to make friends or learn about others, I overlooked the fact that what I 'planned' is just my own thinking, based on an idea of what 'doing my best' is supposed to mean. It has nothing to do with how things unfold in the context of being within that situation, with all its complex conditions. Later, I started to realize that hardly anything that happens in the present moment is governed by how I think or plan it. At best, what I plan is only a kind of resource that will help me steer a path or draw from old experiences that might have worked in some cases, in the past. But plans don't provide experiences that can be replicated. The same is true with expectations.
I have often had some worries about not wanting to let other people down. When I was coordinating a workshop recently, I would occasionally judge how I was doing based on the feedback I had received from others. I learned how easily I go out to others to judge my work, and how afraid I was of letting others down or being seen in a negative light. But, as I reflected tonight, the only expectations I can or need to manage are the ones arising in the mind itself. It is not about imaginary expectations that might be happening to someone else 'out there', but more: what expectations do I face now about this situation I am in? Am I expecting perfection? Am I expecting others to overlook things I did, or recognize me more? Do I expect to be able to make others happy? It is only in examining these expectations that I see their basis in a kind of desire for me to be "okay", when only mind can say that mind is okay. Often, when I am afraid of others' reactions, I am really projecting my own reactions onto the situations around me. It is a reflection of the state of mind I am having. More tragic, I end up giving away mind's power to phenomena that have no power to reverse my fears.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Desert Mind
There is a scene in the movie "Wild", (based on the book by Cheryl Strayed), where the protagonist is just embarking on her hike through the Pacific Valley Coastline, and the audience hears the voices in her mind. She is tired, very thirsty and exhausted from a long trek, carrying a burdensome knapsack that looks about twice her size. In that moment, the viewer 'hears' her thoughts, some of which arise from her childhood memories. There are times when the thoughts sound scattered and delirious. However, there is this sweet moment as a viewer where I hear the chaos of these thoughts but know that somehow this is just a movie. And there is a comfort in knowing (well, having read the book, that is), that Cheryl will pull through in the end.
In meditation, it's a funny thing: I will often have these strange thoughts come up, or at other times, the place seems arid, as though I were walking in a desert with no water or food for miles. And then I continue to use the method, but generating the energy to do so starts to get harder and harder. It is as though I were climbing a very steep hill and almost out of breath or energy. Yet, there is this determination to keep going inside me. I want to keep going, even when I have no idea when this dry spell is going to end. This kind of experience happened to me in the afternoon of today's meditation retreat. There wasn't an easy resolution to it, and certainly not the breakthrough experience I had hoped would end that 'desert' experience. Instead, I felt at times not sure where the practice was taking me. There were times when I simply surrendered to some higher being, even though I hadn't a clue what the higher being was...just having faith that I would be carried through it, because there isn't anything coming from inside me to keep going.
Many contemplative traditions talk about the desert as a place of difficulty. Thomas Merton doesn't refer to the desert so much as the dark night of the soul.I think he is really talking about a place where one doesn't quite know whether to retreat or to keep going, and yet there is not much choice but to keep going.In a sense, one has already set out on the journey long ago and made preparations. There is no turning back at that point.
From the perspectives I have read in Chan, there is no need to dislike or like anything that arises in meditative practices. What I react to is this sense that there should be 'me', and the dislocation I get when I realize there is no place for the self. I think these situations challenge me to re-think what I am expecting or desiring in practice,and to keep letting go of the 'template' of what an experience looks like.
In meditation, it's a funny thing: I will often have these strange thoughts come up, or at other times, the place seems arid, as though I were walking in a desert with no water or food for miles. And then I continue to use the method, but generating the energy to do so starts to get harder and harder. It is as though I were climbing a very steep hill and almost out of breath or energy. Yet, there is this determination to keep going inside me. I want to keep going, even when I have no idea when this dry spell is going to end. This kind of experience happened to me in the afternoon of today's meditation retreat. There wasn't an easy resolution to it, and certainly not the breakthrough experience I had hoped would end that 'desert' experience. Instead, I felt at times not sure where the practice was taking me. There were times when I simply surrendered to some higher being, even though I hadn't a clue what the higher being was...just having faith that I would be carried through it, because there isn't anything coming from inside me to keep going.
Many contemplative traditions talk about the desert as a place of difficulty. Thomas Merton doesn't refer to the desert so much as the dark night of the soul.I think he is really talking about a place where one doesn't quite know whether to retreat or to keep going, and yet there is not much choice but to keep going.In a sense, one has already set out on the journey long ago and made preparations. There is no turning back at that point.
From the perspectives I have read in Chan, there is no need to dislike or like anything that arises in meditative practices. What I react to is this sense that there should be 'me', and the dislocation I get when I realize there is no place for the self. I think these situations challenge me to re-think what I am expecting or desiring in practice,and to keep letting go of the 'template' of what an experience looks like.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Desires as "Solutions"
The week ends as of today, Friday, yielding to another eventful weekend. I feel release from the work week as I settle into school assignments. I enjoy the idea of having to stay up later than usual, not being bounded by the sense of time or urgency to get sleep. My body naturally relaxes into that state of not being chained to the following day.
This evening, I was reading a section in the Surangama Sutra where Buddha expounds on the 6 knots in a scarf. The six knots seem to represent the six sense faculties (seeing, hearing, smelling, touch, tasting, consciousness), whereas the scarf is the actual mind. In this section, Buddha is explaining to Ananda how working on one knot (or one sense) will end up gradually liberating all the others, if followed in a sequence.
There is an intriguing part in this text where Buddha keeps demonstrating incorrect ways of untying the knots, such as pulling on both sides to make it tighter. Ananda finally explains to the Buddha that the only way to untie the knot is to "pull on the scarf from within each knot" (p.199). As I read this passage, I kept wondering what this means.
When I am trying to untie a knot, I often come to this similar sort of decision about how to untie it. If my mind is very agitated, I try to tug on either one side or the other of the scarf, thinking that forcing one part will cause the others to budge.This often happens when I have given up and just want something to move, not realizing in that moment that I am just making the knot tighter by reinforcing its conditions. Buddha's 'solution' is to literally reverse the way I am trying to untie: to pull the scarf gently out of the knot, rather than trying to separate scarf from its knots. This might be compared to seeing the mind in the sense itself, rather than trying to violently reject sensory experiences altogether.
I am not wholly certain if I have it right, but I think the analogy might refer to seeing the true mind in all experiences and using experience itself to see true mind. In effect, the 'knot' is just the temporary form of the scarf, and it relates to how phenomena is perceived. It doesn't have a reality of its own that can be forced apart or 'pried open'. But because my focus is on that 'ball' of folds created by the scarf, I will want to do anything to twist it out of shape, as though it were an enemy to the scarf. When I understand that all those forms are just the scarf itself, I calm myself and start to work with it as a scarf, not as a separate form. I become less fixated on getting rid of the knots, and more attentive to the totality of the scarf and its possibilities.
There are many examples of this principle in daily life. One such is the habit I have of rushing in to solve a problem, as though the problem were separate from the situation itself and its conditions. I want to cure an illness by having a surgeon 'pull it out of my body'. I might not realize that it's my body that is causing the illness, and not the physical symptom itself. But when I reflect on it, not everything need be so violent. If conditions make the knots appear, surely there may be similar conditions out there which might reverse the form of the knots. But if I try too hard to make the knot disappear by tugging at it or using some kind of physical force, I only transfer more tension and energy to the knot. Has it ever happened when a person quarrels with another person, and the energy of the argument only gets stronger? It's because the conflict is isolated and heightened. I try to engage 'the fight to end all fights', only to realize that it's my very own mental energy that is the conflict itself. I think Master Sheng Yen once said, if one does not 'fight back' with someone else, could the fight possibly continue? How can an argument even exist if I choose not to engage it? But, most of the time, I find the temptation is to use the energy of conflict to try to end conflict. This is a little bit like adding gasoline to a fire. Of course, it will probably extinguish some of the existing fire, but it will end up creating even more fire.
Another example I can think of related to this topic is how fixating on 'problems' is often a way to prolong them. It's one of the great ironies of life that when a person treats something as a problem or as a sin, they only create more temptation for others to commit that sin or keep engaging in the 'problem'. I don't really know how or why that is the case, but if I view it from the mind perspective, anything I think obsessively about is going to create that phenomena in mind. It's going to feed it, even though my intention might be to squelch it. That is why parents who emphasize not doing something often have kids who do that very thing...and often! The parent is subconsciously giving the energy of that repressed thought to the child,without realizing it.
Ananda's eventual understanding of how the knot is untied is a subtle teaching. I don't find it so easy to grasp. I might interpret the concept of 'pulling the scarf through the knot' as always starting and ending with the mind. If I am investigating the mind that is the source of the phenomena, suddenly my attention has shifted to something that can't be reduced to a single form. I can relax: whatever the solution is, it is not going to be in the things I am seeing or feeling. Pulling the scarf out means working with the mind, rather than picking and choosing: "I hate knots, so I need to remove them." If the knot is another form of the scarf, is the solution to try to remove them? What is being removed? Maybe a form, but not the scarf itself.
A third example I have is that of using the raw experience of our problems to see the mind within it. It's hard to do this, because often mind is rushing to get to a solution that will relieve me of the problem itself.This works temporarily, sometimes, but people continue to get wrapped up in one difficulty after the next. Rather than using the experience to see their mind, they are devoted to trying to resolve, or get rid of vexations, only to face more later on.
Over time, I think this mentality has lead me to associate desires with 'solutions' to problems. Whenever a problem arises, the desire arises to extinguish the problem. I become so determined to get rid of what I dislike, yet the desire to remove a situation constitutes yet another problem. It's a subtle problem because with desire, there is always the illusion that I will be content once I satisfy the desire. But life doesn't work like this!
Surangama Sutra (2009). Buddhist Text Translation Society
This evening, I was reading a section in the Surangama Sutra where Buddha expounds on the 6 knots in a scarf. The six knots seem to represent the six sense faculties (seeing, hearing, smelling, touch, tasting, consciousness), whereas the scarf is the actual mind. In this section, Buddha is explaining to Ananda how working on one knot (or one sense) will end up gradually liberating all the others, if followed in a sequence.
There is an intriguing part in this text where Buddha keeps demonstrating incorrect ways of untying the knots, such as pulling on both sides to make it tighter. Ananda finally explains to the Buddha that the only way to untie the knot is to "pull on the scarf from within each knot" (p.199). As I read this passage, I kept wondering what this means.
When I am trying to untie a knot, I often come to this similar sort of decision about how to untie it. If my mind is very agitated, I try to tug on either one side or the other of the scarf, thinking that forcing one part will cause the others to budge.This often happens when I have given up and just want something to move, not realizing in that moment that I am just making the knot tighter by reinforcing its conditions. Buddha's 'solution' is to literally reverse the way I am trying to untie: to pull the scarf gently out of the knot, rather than trying to separate scarf from its knots. This might be compared to seeing the mind in the sense itself, rather than trying to violently reject sensory experiences altogether.
I am not wholly certain if I have it right, but I think the analogy might refer to seeing the true mind in all experiences and using experience itself to see true mind. In effect, the 'knot' is just the temporary form of the scarf, and it relates to how phenomena is perceived. It doesn't have a reality of its own that can be forced apart or 'pried open'. But because my focus is on that 'ball' of folds created by the scarf, I will want to do anything to twist it out of shape, as though it were an enemy to the scarf. When I understand that all those forms are just the scarf itself, I calm myself and start to work with it as a scarf, not as a separate form. I become less fixated on getting rid of the knots, and more attentive to the totality of the scarf and its possibilities.
There are many examples of this principle in daily life. One such is the habit I have of rushing in to solve a problem, as though the problem were separate from the situation itself and its conditions. I want to cure an illness by having a surgeon 'pull it out of my body'. I might not realize that it's my body that is causing the illness, and not the physical symptom itself. But when I reflect on it, not everything need be so violent. If conditions make the knots appear, surely there may be similar conditions out there which might reverse the form of the knots. But if I try too hard to make the knot disappear by tugging at it or using some kind of physical force, I only transfer more tension and energy to the knot. Has it ever happened when a person quarrels with another person, and the energy of the argument only gets stronger? It's because the conflict is isolated and heightened. I try to engage 'the fight to end all fights', only to realize that it's my very own mental energy that is the conflict itself. I think Master Sheng Yen once said, if one does not 'fight back' with someone else, could the fight possibly continue? How can an argument even exist if I choose not to engage it? But, most of the time, I find the temptation is to use the energy of conflict to try to end conflict. This is a little bit like adding gasoline to a fire. Of course, it will probably extinguish some of the existing fire, but it will end up creating even more fire.
Another example I can think of related to this topic is how fixating on 'problems' is often a way to prolong them. It's one of the great ironies of life that when a person treats something as a problem or as a sin, they only create more temptation for others to commit that sin or keep engaging in the 'problem'. I don't really know how or why that is the case, but if I view it from the mind perspective, anything I think obsessively about is going to create that phenomena in mind. It's going to feed it, even though my intention might be to squelch it. That is why parents who emphasize not doing something often have kids who do that very thing...and often! The parent is subconsciously giving the energy of that repressed thought to the child,without realizing it.
Ananda's eventual understanding of how the knot is untied is a subtle teaching. I don't find it so easy to grasp. I might interpret the concept of 'pulling the scarf through the knot' as always starting and ending with the mind. If I am investigating the mind that is the source of the phenomena, suddenly my attention has shifted to something that can't be reduced to a single form. I can relax: whatever the solution is, it is not going to be in the things I am seeing or feeling. Pulling the scarf out means working with the mind, rather than picking and choosing: "I hate knots, so I need to remove them." If the knot is another form of the scarf, is the solution to try to remove them? What is being removed? Maybe a form, but not the scarf itself.
A third example I have is that of using the raw experience of our problems to see the mind within it. It's hard to do this, because often mind is rushing to get to a solution that will relieve me of the problem itself.This works temporarily, sometimes, but people continue to get wrapped up in one difficulty after the next. Rather than using the experience to see their mind, they are devoted to trying to resolve, or get rid of vexations, only to face more later on.
Over time, I think this mentality has lead me to associate desires with 'solutions' to problems. Whenever a problem arises, the desire arises to extinguish the problem. I become so determined to get rid of what I dislike, yet the desire to remove a situation constitutes yet another problem. It's a subtle problem because with desire, there is always the illusion that I will be content once I satisfy the desire. But life doesn't work like this!
Surangama Sutra (2009). Buddhist Text Translation Society
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